This story was first published in the Fort Bragg PARAGLIDE then SOLDIERS Magazine, both in 1988. 

Still Jumping After All These Years

 Cheryl was 18 and unbelievably pretty for a woman so old.  I was 5.  She was a sharp contrast to Mrs. Lane and Ms. Julie, my other kindergarten teachers.  Cheryl never lost her temper, even when I played with the lizards that came in through the screenless, open windows of our classroom. 
             I was thinking about Cheryl not long ago as I prepared for a night jump in Florida.  I could only imagine what she'd think of my chosen profession.  In fact, I sometimes wonder which of us actually decided I'd grow up to be a paratrooper.  And despite the pleasant differences between Cheryl and the other ladies, she had one major flaw that made us boys avoid her.  She believed all little boys were supposed to be "little gentlemen."  Not me.  If I had wanted to be a sissy, I'd have stayed home and played with my sister instead of going to kindergarten a year early.  In 1960, if a kid went to kindergarten at all, he attended a church-run "pre-school" the summer before starting the 1^st grade.  But as I said, I went a year early.

          I really had no choice though.  This was the last summer Thomasville's First Baptist Church would have a kindergarten.  Next summer they were starting something called "Vacation Bible School."  Although I liked the pastor and my Sunday School teachers, and I loved hearing about Joshua and David and especially Jesus, I had no ambitions to be a preacher. 

I wanted a career that allowed me to be outside, like my Daddy, the Marine, or my Papa, the farmer. [I actually wanted something in between.]  Besides all that, we weren�t going to be here next year.  Mama told me we were going to move to a place called Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.  She and both my grandmothers were not happy about the move.  North Carolina sounded big and far away, further than Parris Island, South Carolina, where I was born.  "North" sounded ominous in itself, creating images in my young mind of the North Pole, scenes I had watched on Walt Disney - with snowy plains and caribou, walrus seals and polar bears - but no frogs, toads or lizards.  I was already missing Georgia, and we hadn't even left yet.

           There was one bad thing about being in kindergarten a year early.  Because I was a year younger than the other kids, I was also a lot smaller.  And when you're smaller, you have to be tougher.  I learned quickly that even the biggest, ugliest bully would hesitate to bother you if it risked having his front teeth forcibly removed.  Ricky Windom was just such a bully.

            Ricky was a red-haired, freckled kid who had a long, pointed nose, beady blue eyes and a bad attitude.  He and I hit it off wrong during recess one day when I caught him torturing a schoolyard lizard.  I like lizards [and frogs, toads, turtles, etc.].  It took all three teachers and the Georgia National Guard to separate us.

            "Gentlemen can find better ways to settle their differences," Cheryl told us, practicing that psychology stuff she claimed she was going to take at the University of Georgia.

            Have you ever heard a bloodhound when it's treed a raccoon?  It's beautiful dog, but, man, it sure does make a lot of noise.  And that's what Cheryl's lecture was to us - just noise.  Still, Cheryl managed to talk Mrs. Lane out of spanking us, something she called "barbaric," and into letting her determine our fate.

            What a deal!  At first I appreciated Cheryl's intervention.  But she decided Ricky and I would have to work and play together until we became friends.  That idea made me change my mind.  I knew right away her psychology stuff was a joke because neither of us would live long enough to see that happen.

            Studying [which consisted of writing our letters of the week and saying them aloud] with Ricky, was tolerable, even though he had the IQ of a turnip.  At recess, however, we just didn't get along.  Ricky liked to play baseball, a totally un-American sport as I saw it.  I preferred to spend my entire recess in the big metal swings that overlooked the rest of the playground.

            I would swing so high the chains would buckle, nearly dumping me on the ground.  When it was time to go in, instead of waiting for the swing to slow down, I'd jump.  Ricky didn't like swings or jumping.  When it was my turn to choose our daily activity for recess, he'd start sniveling to Cheryl.

            His efforts to restrict our activities to only what he wanted to do weren't entirely unsuccessful.  Cheryl noted that my "reckless" swinging and jumping "might" be dangerous and warned me if either of us got hurt, I wouldn't be allowed to play on the swings anymore.  As she relayed her ominous threat, I saw a twinkle in Ricky's beady eyes.

            "Betcha can't jump over the sidewalk," he hissed.

            That was a dare if ever I heard one.  I accepted but only on condition that he jump too.  Ricky drew a long, deep breath then reluctantly agreed.

            Usually when I jumped, I made stand-up landings.  But the sidewalk was so far in front of the swings that an error could be unpleasant.  I would have to swing high enough to clear the sidewalk when I jumped then roll when I hit so as to absorb the impact and avoid injury.  I was an expert at jumping.  I'd been jumping from trees and Papa's hayloft since I was 3.  I was sure I could do it; I wasn't so sure about Ricky.

            I could tell he was getting nervous as we swung higher and higher.  In fact, he looked sorta pale.  Even his reddish-brown freckles were faded.  When our swings were running nearly level with the top of the set, I gave him the word to jump.

"GO!!!"  I shouted with my best jumpmaster voice.

I cleared the sidewalk with ease, landing in the soft grass on the other side and rolling to a stop.  Ricky didn't do it quite the same way.  He hesitated for a fraction of a second before jumping, which caused him to come up just short of the sidewalk.  He crashed and burned, hurling himself face-first into the sidewalk, like he was sliding into home base.  I think he was confused.  We weren't playing baseball.

            When he stood up, I noticed his pointed nose was considerably shorter, and he was very unhappy about it too.  As I expected, Cheryl appeared instantly to investigate the murderous screams he was making.

            "It's his fault!"  Ricky cried as he pointed at me, "He made me do it!"

            I didn't recall making him do anything, but I didn't try to defend myself either.  I was more curious than scared.  Now at last, I would see what Cheryl's temper was like.  I was certain she was going to ground me - literally - for life.  I might even get kicked out of kindergarten for this.  Even if I had wanted to be one, I'd never be allowed to be a preacher now.  But instead of losing her temper and yelling at me, she spoke kind but strange words of encouragement to me as she gently wiped the bloody stump that was now Ricky's nose with a wad of crumpled tissue paper.

           "Don't just stand there!"  She insisted, "Get back in your swing and do it again!!  I want you to keep on jumping till you know what it feels like to get hurt!!!"

           As the jumpmasters gave our plane the 20-minute warning, I spoke kindly of Cheryl in my pre-jump prayers.  She may have thought she was trying to modify my behavior with reverse psychology, but after more than 30 years, I'm still doing what she told me.  And though I've too often learned what it feels like to get hurt, I'm still jumping after all these years!

Thanks for the career advice, Cheryl.          

  NOTE: The author was medically retired by the Army in 1992 due to repeated neck injuries, mostly caused by too many hard landings. And though he certainly knows how it feels to get hurt, he'd love to be able to jump again, if only because he still loves the sensation of "swinging" under the canopy of his parachute.